


Where Your Book Begins

by poetzproblem



Series: Don't Blink [13]
Category: Glee
Genre: Coming Out, Drama, F/F, Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 03:47:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetzproblem/pseuds/poetzproblem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quinn wants to do more than just drift through the next four years; she wants to open herself up to new experiences—good experiences. God knows she's had enough bad ones.  </p><p>Thirteenth in the Don't Blink series, and first chronologically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Blank Page Before You

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Skywarrior108 for being an awesome beta.

 

 

_Drench yourself in words unspoken_  
_Live your life with arms wide open_  
_Today is where your book begins_  
_The rest is still unwritten_  
_~Unwritten, Natasha Bedingfield_

* * *

**Part I: The Blank Page Before You**

* * *

Quinn Fabray is seventeen years old the first time she consciously considers the possibility that she's attracted to women— _ a _ woman, more specifically. Rachel Berry, to be exact. She's already admitted to herself that she's never really hated Rachel. She's been annoyed by her, and jealous of her, and angry with her, but she's also always been unaccountably fascinated with her. At some point, Quinn had decided that it must be Rachel's voice, and that idea isn't challenged until Finn and Rachel get back together at Nationals in New York City.

She's holding Santana back from clawing Rachel's eyes out in the hotel room, and it's taking everything in her because she just wants to let Santana go and dig her own nails into Finn Hudson until he's bleeding on the outside as much as Quinn is on the inside. It's backwards, and she knows it. She should want to hurt _ Rachel _ for taking Finn away from her, but that isn't what she's feeling at all, and it terrifies her. Her heart breaks whenever she thinks of Rachel ending up in the life that Quinn envisions every time she thinks of becoming Mrs. Finn Hudson. She has an inkling of an idea why she feels that way, but it's impossible and sinful and she doesn't want it in her head, so she buries it.

Quinn goes back to Lima with her new haircut and her fake smile and refuses to think about Rachel and Finn—consciously. Her subconscious does not get the memo, and she's plagued by dreams (and nightmares) that pull her from her sleep every night with a racing heart and overheated body. She spends the summer trying to forget the haunting images that keep her company in her bed. She meets the Mack one afternoon in a diner, and Quinn tries a cigarette and falls in love with the notion of letting the world just burn to ashes. Mack's much older brother is a nice distraction for a while, but Quinn isn't really into it, as much as she tries, and Tommy is just decent enough not to push the issue.

It bothers Quinn—that she couldn't make herself feel much of anything with Tommy, with Finn, with Sam, with Puck. It bothers her, but she buries it, because her lack of passion can't be _ her _ fault—it must have been them. She goes back to school with a new look and a new attitude, and she doesn't care. She doesn't care until Rachel shows up under the bleachers with wide, earnest eyes, offering apologies and missing Quinn and promising all the time she needs to get it right, and that inkling of an idea awakens to taunt her, hand in hand with blurry images from her dreams. Quinn pushes them away, because she still can't have them in her head, and tries to disappear into the smoke and attitude. Then Shelby comes back, dangling the one perfect thing that Quinn has ever managed to achieve in front of her face like a prize, and Quinn's mind is suddenly filled with Beth, and everything else fades away for a good, long time.

**xox**

It's a hug in a bathroom and the news that Finn Hudson is stupider than Quinn ever gave him credit for that forces her to finally acknowledge that inkling of an idea, and she isn't any less terrified than she was the first time it flitted into her head. She ignores it, drowns out the whispers in her ears and her heart with thoughts of her future and of college, and she thinks that maybe someday she'll be able to let go and move on to a nice young man, a white picket fence, a couple of kids, and just... _ happiness _ .

It's a text message and a truck that put the thoughts of  _ someday _  on indefinite hold, because she's stuck in a wheelchair, and dealing with physical therapy, and just praying that she can still have college and her future waiting for her once she makes it through the pain. Rachel is still engaged to Finn, so it hardly even matters whether or not Quinn might be a little bit in love with her. She tells herself that it's only Rachel, so maybe it's just an emotional attraction, and it doesn't have to change who Quinn is. She isn't attracted to other women. Of course, she also isn't attracted to poor Artie, who she knows has a little crush on her, or to Teen Jesus with his encouraging words, but she can't deny that it's nice to have someone still want her, even if she is broken. She lets them stroke her ego, but she doesn't take either of them seriously. She makes it through high school, and out of the wheelchair, and off to Yale. 

She kisses Puck one last time to boost his ego, because she doesn’t want to see him stuck in Lima either, and because she wants to find out if he can make her feel something again. He can’t. 

**xox**

Quinn is eighteen when she arrives in New Haven. She likes her roommate—Megan is pretty and sweet and (thank God) intelligent—and Quinn doesn't feel a thing when Megan strips off her clothes and changes in front of her. She's relieved and hopeful, so she accepts a date with a guy named Zane whom she meets the second week of classes. She's nervous and self-conscious, because she still has a noticeable limp and ugly scarring crisscrossing her left leg—not to mention her torso, but she isn't planning to let anyone see that anytime soon—but she does her best to relax and give Zane a chance. She shouldn't have bothered. He's a typical jock, self-centered and a little dim, and Quinn has already dated three versions of him. She isn’t interested in reliving the experience.

Quinn meets Jason in her Survey to Theater and Drama class. He's kind and intelligent and handsome and nothing like the guys she used to date, so when he asks her out at the end of September, Quinn says yes. They have a nice time together and have a lot to talk about, so it's easy to agree to a second date. It's at the end of that date when things go wrong again. He asks if he can kiss her goodnight, and Quinn smiles and nods shyly, and then their lips meet, and...she feels nothing. Jason is a good kisser—not too aggressive, not too soft—and the kiss is pleasant, but there aren't any fireworks. There isn't even a cap gun going off.

Quinn is over the need to have a cute guy on her arm to compliment her image. Her self-worth no longer depends on a man constantly reassuring her that she's thin enough or pretty enough or popular enough. She's been through hell and back, all on her own, and she's strong enough to wait for something real. Quinn has no incentive to fake it with Jason, but she isn't ready to give up on the kiss. She pulls him closer, hoping to feel something (like what she feels when she talks to Rachel) because she  _ should,  _ but she doesn't. She sends him home, goes back to her room, and cries into her pillow. Two days later, she tells Jason that she thinks they should just be friends.

**xox**

Rachel visits her for the first time in late October. She’s been busy in New York with classes and with Finn, and she apologizes again and again for not being able to get away sooner. Quinn smiles and tells her not to worry, that she’s been busy, too. It’s true, but it’s also a convenient excuse that she’s been using to avoid making the trip to New York. Rachel has a knack for stirring up emotions that Quinn prefers to keep buried, and the prospect of seeing Rachel and Finn together in the city, living out their dreams, makes her feel irrationally angry. Here in New Haven, when it’s only Rachel with her contagious enthusiasm and genuine interest in Quinn’s college life, Quinn can enjoy the moment and the company and imagine that nothing ever has to change. 

For a few days, she’s just a girl showing her best friend around Yale. They laugh, and they talk about the campus and Quinn’s roommate, Rachel’s bitchy dance instructor, music, and movies. They talk about New York, and Quinn watches Rachel’s lips curve into a soft smile that lights her up from within. She watches dark eyes sparkle with pure joy and excited hands that can’t keep still reach up to tuck a strand of hair behind a pink ear. She feels Rachel’s delight for life seep into her skin, down deep into her bones, until she almost believes it’s her own. She tries to hold onto it for as long as she can after Rachel leaves, but it fades like the sun into the dreary autumn skies.

**xox**

It's mid-November when Quinn is forced into total self-awareness. She's at a party with Megan, and she's pleasantly buzzed, but she isn't drunk. She's watching people dance and grind against one another, not fully realizing that her eyes are lingering on the women in the room more than the guys. A friend of Megan's, whose name she doesn't really remember—she thinks it might be Josie or Jessica—comes over and asks if she wants to dance. Quinn really does, because she’s always loved to dance and for a few months she’d thought she might never be able to again. She's not thinking too deeply about the invitation because it's an upbeat song and a lot of girls are dancing in groups, so she lets the girl (tall and curvy, with auburn hair and interested eyes) pull her up from her perch on the edge of the chair, but her leg still isn't fully cooperating—less so after two cups of beer—and she stumbles a bit into waiting arms. In an instant, there are strong hands on her ass, and the girl is lifting her up and pressing her tight, and God—Quinn feels every inch of those curves fit against her own and a streak of fire dances through her blood. Her arms find their way around a trim waist, and she wants to press closer. She wants to...rub and grind and do things she shouldn't want to ever do with another woman. 

Maybe it's the alcohol or maybe it's the music—loud and thrumming like a pulse through the room—or maybe it's just Yale and the moment and a desire to dance. Quinn leans into the girl and lets her body move to the beat, and for a while, she feels free. She feels young and brave and wild. Until she feels soft lips brush against her jaw and her fuzzy head snaps into focus. She turns and those lips are right there, so close to hers that she can almost taste the tequila on the other girl's breath. And then she does—just a sip; a nip; a shot of flavor and heat that burns her tongue and warms her belly. It's too much too fast, and she panics, jerking away and muttering a disjointed excuse before she staggers outside and collapses against the wall in tears.

She somehow makes her way back to her dorm and stands beneath a hot shower spray for a long time as she sobs into her hands. What she'd felt in a ten second embrace was more than she'd felt kissing her boyfriends—more like what she feels every time Rachel touches her. And Quinn has an inkling of an idea—a shadow of a memory—that she's noticed other women before and wondered if their skin was as soft as it looked or what their bodies looked like under their clothes. It doesn't happen with everyone. She still doesn't feel any particular attraction to Megan—blonde, bubbly Megan. She'd never felt the desire to touch Tina or Mercedes. She hasn't even imagined kissing Brittany, but she can no longer pretend that Rachel is the only woman that has the power to make her blood sing.

Quinn turns off the water and dries her tears as she dries her body. When Megan comes back to their room, she doesn't ask where Quinn disappeared to, and Quinn doesn't volunteer any information.

**xox**

Megan's friend—whose name is Josie—finds Quinn in the student lounge two days later. She tentatively sits down across from her and says, “I'm sorry about the other night.” Quinn drags in a trembling breath, keeping her eyes focused on her laptop. “I didn't mean to freak you out,” Josie apologizes. “I just wanted to dance, and I thought you might be into it. It's cool if you're not.”

Quinn feels her face heat; she nods, mumbles, “Yeah, I'm not,” and keeps on staring at her screen. Josie sighs, but she takes the hint and leaves Quinn to her own devices.

Her own devices are Internet searches conducted in secret, books that she sneakily pulls off of shelves in the library, and a Thanksgiving break when Megan packs up and goes home to Pennsylvania and Quinn stays on campus by herself (to save money because she's flying home for Christmas) and marathons every lesbian themed television show and film that she can find on Netflix or Hulu. 

She thinks about Rachel as she lets her hands wander her own body. She should feel dirty—because Rachel is engaged to Finn—but she doesn't. It’s her own mind and her own body, and she has every right to her own fantasies. She comes with Rachel's name on her tongue, and she cries alone into the darkness, because her own imagination of a feminine body that she’ll never touch is a thousand times better than the remembered reality of hard muscle and stubble and suffocating weight on top of her. She cries because it will never be real. She cries because now she can't even look forward to a nice guy and a white picket fence of her own. She's just going to have more adversity to deal with, more rejection, more fear.

**xox**

Quinn goes back to Lima over winter break. She's happy to see Mercedes, and she catches up with Artie. She spends Christmas Day with her mother, pretending to be happy when neither of them is living the life that they really want. Judy is lonely and struggling to stay sober, and Quinn is lonely and struggling to make peace with herself.

Rachel stays in New York until December twenty-third, because Finn has to work and she can’t leave him in the city alone. Quinn is thrust back into her presence on the day after Christmas, and, for a few hours, it's the sweetest torture as they chat over breakfast and browse the Lima Mall for sales. There’s a little get-together that night for the old glee club, and Quinn is forced to see Finn. She tries desperately to ignore the way her heart twists and her stomach turns as his hands constantly find their way onto Rachel's body.

It's only for a day, because the happy couple has to fly back to New York early in the morning on December twenty-seventh so that Finn can get back to his job, and Rachel won’t let him go alone. Quinn turns down their invitation to spend New Year's Eve in the city with them. She doesn't need to watch them kiss at midnight amidst a sea of happy strangers.

Instead, she welcomes the New Year in Lima with Santana and Brittany and a loud group of familiar and unfamiliar faces. Some are coupled up, and even more are single again. Tina and Mike are on opposite sides of the room, and Sam is looking longingly at Brittany, much to Santana’s displeasure, while Mercedes talks to anyone who will listen about a guy in Los Angeles, where Puck still is because he was too broke to afford a plane ticket home for the holidays. 

Kurt and Blaine seem caught in the middle of an argument, but Quinn thinks they’re technically still together, at least for the moment. Artie is dating Sugar now that Rory is back in Ireland, and Joe has a pretty girlfriend whose name Quinn can’t be bothered to learn, and there are some other underclassmen that she doesn’t care to know, engaged in disgusting displays of teenage hormones. 

When midnight comes around, Quinn forces a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes while her friends share their first kisses of the year. She’s never felt so alone, even as they all wrap her up in friendly hugs and kiss her cheeks.

She sits on the sofa at four-thirteen in the morning, curled under a soft, flannel blanket and watching the cottony flakes of snow melt against the windowpane. The party wound down about an hour ago, and the handful of revelers who were too drunk to attempt the drive home are strategically sprawled around the Lopez house. Quinn suspects that she’s the only one left awake at this hour, but she can’t switch her mind off. 

She thinks about Santana and how afraid she was to come out, even though all of her friends already knew that she was in love with Brittany. She thinks about Kurt and the bullying he had to endure from Dave Karofsky and how it got so bad that he had to transfer schools. Then she thinks about Karofsky and how, for a while, death seemed the better option to him than living as an out, gay teenager.

As unsettled as she feels, Quinn knows that accepting her sexuality won’t break her. She’s already been broken twice over already. Her heart will never be whole with the absence of Beth, and her body will never be perfect with the scars that mar her skin or the pain that haunts her nightmares. She’ll survive this too. She’ll survive, but she needs a crutch until the ground beneath her feet stops shaking.

**xox**

The spring semester at Yale doesn’t begin until January fourteenth, and Quinn isn’t going back to New Haven until next week. Santana’s classes at Columbia begin on the twenty-first, and she’s taking advantage of every extra minute she can manage with Brittany before she goes back to college. When Brittany failed to graduate last spring, Santana had nearly deferred college for a year, but Brittany hadn’t wanted her to make that sacrifice. Quinn knows the long distance relationship is taking its toll on them, and she suspects that Santana has logged more travel time between New York and Lima than class time at Columbia.

All Brittany has to do this year is graduate. Quinn is praying for her. She honestly doesn’t know what Santana will do if Brittany isn’t with her in New York next year. 

Classes at McKinley start up on the third of January, so Quinn invites Santana over to her house to hang out while Brittany is in school. She makes them lunch—nothing too complicated, just some sandwiches from the leftover ham. She contemplates the merits of coming out via themed movie marathon on Netflix. She laughs a little, thinking that it’s something Rachel might do, or maybe a PowerPoint presentation. Quinn really doesn’t miss those at all.

Santana shows up in jeans and a hoodie with her hair scraped back into a ponytail and minimal makeup. “Like I’m dressing up for you,” she scoffs when Quinn makes a comment, shouldering past her into the kitchen and going straight for the ham. Quinn isn’t exactly dressed in her best clothes either, opting for jeans and a sweater, but she can’t help feeling annoyed that Santana no longer deems her important enough to bother trying to impress.

She watches Santana grab her sandwich and then proceed to paw through the refrigerator for extra mayonnaise, a jar of pickles, the leftover potato salad, and the cranberry sauce. Quinn huffs and rolls her eyes, leaning against the counter as she lets her friend raid her kitchen. “I know your mother feeds you,” she comments dryly.

Santana shoots a half-assed glare over her shoulder, pulling out the last quarter of pumpkin pie for good measure. “She feeds me,” she confirms as she closes the fridge, “but I worked up an extra appetite last night, if you know what I mean,” she adds with a smirk.

Quinn feels her face flush, and she shakes her head, turning away to get her own sandwich. Part of her thinks it’s the perfect opening. _ Oh, hey, I know exactly what you mean. I actually kissed a girl at Yale, and I think I might be kind of gay. _ She doesn’t say that. She doesn’t say anything.

“Guess college hasn't loosened you up any,” Santana mutters, picking up her plate and settling down at the table. 

Quinn considers this. One kiss, a silent admission, and some scarily detailed fantasies don’t really add up to much, and the truth is that she’s spent that last four months doing little more than studying and avoiding anything that would require her to get too close to anyone. Quinn wants to do more than just drift through the next four years; she wants to open herself up to new experiences— _ good  _ experiences. God knows she’s had enough bad ones.

“I’m still…settling in,” Quinn finally says, sitting down across from Santana. She thinks of that girl, Josie, and how it felt when their bodies had pressed together in those moments before Quinn panicked and how maybe one day soon, she’ll be able to do that without feeling the overwhelming need to run. “I think really good things are going to happen for me this year,” she decides with a nod.

“Have you been holding out on me, Q?” Santana asks with interest, dropping her half-finished sandwich to the plate, and a familiar smirk settles on her lips. “Did you already find yourself some rich Yalie to sink your claws into so you can fulfill your yearbook superlative?”

“Hardly,” Quinn grumbles with a frown. She isn’t particularly fond of the ‘ _ most likely to marry a millionaire _ ’ that the McKinley yearbook staff had saddled her with. “I just,” she breathes in, nibbles on the corner of her lip and shrugs, “I feel like it’s time to make some changes.”

A peculiar expression flits across Santana’s face, but it’s gone before Quinn can decipher what it means. “You’re not planning on dying your hair purple this time, are you?”

Quinn laughs a little. “If anything, I’ll go back to pink again.”

Santana shrugs and picks at the edge of her sandwich with a fingernail. “Well, you need to do something to get you out of whatever funk you’re in. You’re a hot, single college girl. Go out and have some damn fun, play the field, break some hearts. Hell, that’s totally what I’d be doing if I didn’t have Brittany,” she admits with a raised eyebrow. “Those chicks at Columbia are fucking sexy.”

Quinn can feel her face heat, but she ignores it, instead focusing on what Santana just revealed and frowning.  “Does Brittany know that your eyes are wandering?”

“She doesn’t care about my eyes,” Santana drawls with a roll of hers, “as long as the rest of me stays faithful.” She shrugs again, leaning back in her chair. “We agreed to cut each other a little slack whenever we’re not together, because let’s face it, we’re both super hot bitches and people are going to flirt with us. It’s hard not to notice, you know?”

Quinn nods distractedly, even though she doesn’t really know at all. In her mind, Santana and Brittany noticing other people who are noticing them isn’t a particularly good sign, but she isn’t going to question Santana. She doesn’t have much room to talk, considering her own spotty history with staying faithful, but she knows from her own experience that wandering eyes tend to precede wandering hands and lips and other body parts. She wants her next relationship—whomever it may be with—to be free from that kind of temptation.

“I mean, we can’t all be disgustingly co-dependent like Finchel,” Santana sneers.

Quinn frowns at the mention of Rachel and Finn’s annoying portmanteau, wishing again that Rachel could have stayed in Lima a little longer. “You didn’t even see them while they were here,” Quinn points out, shaking her head. In fact, both Santana and Brittany had somehow managed to make themselves disappear every time Finn and Rachel were around. New Years Eve was the first time they’d spent any significant time with the reunited glee club, and Finn and Rachel had already left by then.

Santana wrinkles her nose and purses her lips, looking like she’s just eaten something horribly distasteful. “I don’t have to see them to know that they’re disgusting. I’m proud to say I haven’t had to witness any of their obnoxiously nauseating PDAs since we graduated.”

Quinn frowns thoughtfully. “I thought you’d seen them in New York a few times.” She knows it hasn’t been often—Rachel had made it a point to mention how busy Santana always seems to be with her classes. 

Santana rolls her eyes again. “I met Kurt and Rachel for coffee twice, and only because Finndigestion had to work. You’d think Berry would have gotten the hint after the dozens of invitations I turned down,” she comments dryly.  

“You’re avoiding them?” Quinn asks, mildly irritated at Santana for no good reason other than the fact that she’s probably hurting Rachel’s feelings.

Santana crosses her arms and huffs. “Look, I had to put up with seeing Finn Hero-Complex Hudson everyday for four years, but we’re not in high school anymore. I don’t have to pretend to like the guy. And before you say anything,” Santana rushes to add, holding up a hand in anticipation of Quinn’s question, “Britts doesn’t like him either, especially since he freaking outed me in the middle of a crowded hallway. So no, I’m not going to hang with him and Berry like I give a crap about their boring, pathetic lives.”

Quinn can’t bring herself to defend Finn. He’s the kind of guy that can seem really sweet when he makes an effort and kind of dumb, so you tend forgive all his stupid mistakes because you think his heart is in the right place, but the longer you know him, the more you start to wonder if he’s really as sweet as he seems or if he’s just a selfish, unthinking jerk who’s learned how to charm his way out of taking responsibility for all of his thoughtless words and actions. He did try to drag Quinn out of her wheelchair at prom, and he never even apologized to her. Granted, she could stand for short periods of time by then, and okay, maybe Finn was right about her hoping to gain some sympathy votes for prom queen, but she was nowhere near strong enough to walk without some form of support. Finn would have known that if he’d bothered to listen to her for two minutes instead of jumping to conclusions and deciding she was an unrepentant bitch. 

Sighing, Quinn nods. “I guess I can’t blame you.” Especially when she’s doing almost exactly the same thing by attempting to avoid seeing Finn and Rachel in all of their engaged bliss. 

“Damn right,” Santana grumbles, taking a big, angry bite of her sandwich to punctuate her point.

Quinn picks at her own food, feeling her stomach sour as she considers exactly what she's thinking of doing. Is she really ready to come out? To actually say the words out loud that will change everything for her? She's already let three perfect openings pass her by, and she's allowing Santana to carry the conversation further and further away from the desired destination. 

Santana eventually polishes off her plate of food, in between amusing Quinn with colorful stories about some of her classmates at Columbia and the nosy neighbor who lives in the apartment across the hall from her. Quinn rinses the dishes and deposits them into the sink for later, and she joins Santana in the living room, collapsing onto the sofa as Santana flicks through the Netflix menu with disinterest. 

“You know,” she drawls, “you really need to get your ass on a train to New York this semester. Forget the HummelHudsonBerrys. We’ll hang out some weekend, get a couple of fake IDs, hit up some clubs, and get our groove on. Maybe we’ll even find you a piece of man candy to use and abuse before you head back to the Ivy League.”

Quinn bites into her lip, and her stomach flips over.  “What if,” she begins, hearing her voice come out weak and breathy, and nervously clearing her throat, “what if I don’t want a man?”

Santana sort of freezes next to her with a finger hovering over the channel button on the remote. She levels Quinn with a measuring gaze that makes her feel like an insect under a microscope. Quinn swallows convulsively, trying to work some moisture back into her dry mouth, and watches as Santana narrows her eyes and tips her head slightly to the left. “Is this you slipping back into your skank-loving-leave-me-alone-I-don’t-give-a-fuck phase, or are you planning to invest in flannel, sensible shoes, and explore the untamed bush?” she finally asks. 

Quinn chokes on a strangled laugh that quickly morphs into a sob. She presses a fist to her mouth in an attempt to keep her composure, but it's no use. All of her confidence drains away under Santana's scrutiny, and she squeezes her eyes closed and tries to focus on her breathing. She distantly hears a whispered, “Holy, shit,” before she feels the sofa cushions shift and a pair of deceptively strong arms wrap around her shoulders.

She leans into Santana as she allows months of repressed emotion pour out. “Hey…shh…you’re okay, Q,” Santana soothes, awkwardly rubbing her bicep.

Quinn dries her eyes and drags in a shaky breath. The shudder that rocks her body is completely involuntary. Santana tightens her hold, but Quinn shakes her head, straightening her posture in an attempt to reclaim her dignity. Santana easily reads the cue and lets go, shuffling a few inches to the right to give Quinn her space.

“I thought I was ready for this,” she manages after a moment.

Santana nods slowly. “So about that,” she hedges, eyeing Quinn warily, “did you really just come out?”

Quinn feels her stomach twist unexpectedly. She can admit her sexuality in the privacy of her own mind, and she’s even whispered it in her room when there’s no one to hear, but to say it out loud—to tell someone else and have it be known—is terrifying. 

She licks her lips and nods, ever so slightly. “Yeah,” she breathes. 

Santana eyes widen imperceptibly, and she puffs out an odd little breath. “Wow,” she drawls, dragging out the short syllable into an awed expression. “I did not expect that.” Quinn silently waits for Santana to process that this is happening, and she watches her friend shake her head disbelievingly. “I mean, I seriously thought you’d be one of those late-in-life lesbians,” Santana reveals, looking Quinn over with a critical eye. “You know, the kind that marries some guy she doesn’t love for money and security, then has a couple of kids out of obligation before she starts messing around with the sexy French Au Pair, divorces her husband, and goes all in with the ladies.”

“Wait,” Quinn mutters lowly, still trying to process what she heard, “you thought…what?”

Santana barks out a laugh. “Oh come on, you didn’t actually expect me to be shocked that you’re attracted to women, did you?” 

Quinn frowns, clenching her jaw her until the muscles in her cheek start to jump. Apart from that one kiss with Josie, her romantic history has been exclusively heterosexual, unlike Santana’s supposedly closeted days.

“Oh, wow,” Santana laughs merrily.  “You did!”

“Fuck you, Santana,” she growls.

Santana slings an arm over her tense shoulder, leaning close and husking, “Bet you’d actually enjoy that, wouldn’t you?”

“Ew,” Quinn pushes her off, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “No thank you.”

“Your loss,” Santana smirks. “The tricks I could teach you...”

“Okay,” Quinn interrupts, holding up a hand to silence her, “so not ready to go there yet.” She can only begin to imagine what Santana’s sexual habits are like, and, lesbian or not, Quinn is pretty sure she doesn’t want to hear about them. She doesn’t want a teacher. She only wants a friend. 

Santana chuckles again, shaking her head, but her smile turns soft and she lightly bumps Quinn’s shoulder with her own. “Seriously, Quinn. I'm incredibly proud of you for poking your head out of the deep, dark closet you've been living in since I met you, but I have to ask,” she levels her gaze on Quinn, and her expression turns unexpectedly serious, “are you really sure about this?”

“Um...yeah, I'm pretty sure I'm gay,” she says slowly, arching her brow—a little relieved that it’s easier to say this time.

“Yeah, no, that's pretty much a given at this point,” Santana flippantly informs her. “I meant, are you sure you're ready to be out?”

_ Oh. _

“I'm not,” she starts to say, then silently laughs—because yeah, she’s out now, even if it is just to Santana. “You're the only person I've told.”

Santana quirks an eyebrow. “You haven't done any experimenting at Yale?”

“No.” Her mind goes back to Josie, and she bites her lip thoughtfully. “Well, not really,” she amends. “I kissed a girl...at a party,” she quickly clarifies when she sees Santana grin, “but that's it.”

“Let me guess, you freaked the hell out.”

“Kind of,” she mumbles with a regretful shrug. It wasn’t one of her finer moments. 

“Did you like it?”

“Kind of,” she admits, feeling her ears heat under Santana’s annoyingly astute gaze. “Okay, yes,” she hisses with a roll of her eyes. “I liked it.”

“Was she hot?” Santana asks with a lecherous smile.

“Santana! Women aren't things to be objectified,” she growls. She’s worse than a teenage boy sometimes. 

“So, that’s a  _ no _ ,” she decides. 

Quinn smacks her across the arm. Hard. “Ouch. Hey,” Santana grumbles, rubbing at her stung flesh. “Do you like this girl?”

“I don't even know her,” she says truthfully.  Josie is very attractive—okay, yes,  _ hot _ —but they’ve spoken a grand total of two times and neither could be considered a conversation. “She's my roommate’s friend. We were dancing, and it felt good to just…not think,” she confesses, closing her eyes and calling up the memory of those blissful minutes where she’d been nothing more than a body moving in time with the beat. “I didn’t care about the past or the future or anyone’s expectations. I didn’t even know what I was doing until,” she stops, opening her eyes to find Santana silently listening with a look of understanding etched across her dark features. 

Quinn sighs, shaking her head in muted frustration. “I freaked the hell out,” she concedes with a rueful smile. “I thought college would be different, that I’d start with a clean slate, with no one to answer to but myself, and everything would just…fall into place.”

“But isn’t that what’s happening?” Santana prompts gently. “You’re finally figuring your shit out, and you’re not hiding anymore. Believe me, living honestly is a hell of alot easier than being miserable while you lie to yourself and everyone around you.”

“Yeah, I think I’m finally getting that.”

“Good for you. And you know,” she shifts uncomfortably, glancing away as she quickly mutters, “I’m here whenever you want to talk.”

Quinn smiles affectionately at her friend. “Thanks, Santana.”

“Don’t mention it. Ever,” she warns, but it’s an empty threat. Quinn knows that Santana has a not-so-secret soft spot for the people that she truly cares about, and Quinn is lucky enough to be one of the chosen few.  

Santana shakes off the last vestiges of concerned friend and slips her more familiar bitchiness back on like a well-loved jacket. “Now let’s get drunk and marathon  _ The Real L Word _ . We need to get you educated.” 

“No, we really don’t,” Quinn bites out, averting her gaze. She can feel Santana’s eyes on the side of her face.

“You’ve already watched it, haven’t you?”

“No,” she denies, cheeks heating. 

“Liar.”

“Bitch,” Quinn snaps back, but it doesn’t have any bite. 

“You know it,” Santana agrees on a laugh, slapping the sofa cushions before she pushes herself up. Hands on her hips, she looks down at Quinn with a mischievous grin. “Now where does Judy keep the good liquor these days?”

It takes Quinn ten minutes to stop Santana from ransacking all the cabinets, but eventually they settle in with a movie—one that Santana finds on Netflix that Quinn hasn’t seen and is, thankfully, not porn—and glasses of water in lieu of the tequila that Santana really wants. Quinn feels more relaxed than she has in a long time, just knowing that she has someone who knows her secrets and is still sitting here, accepting her without question. Well, almost all her secrets. She has yet to mention her deeper feelings for Rachel, but she has a hunch that Santana won’t be very surprised by that revelation either.  

The rest of break passes by quickly. Quinn contemplates coming out to her mother before she goes back to school, but she honestly isn’t ready, and she’s afraid that the conversation will end with her homeless again. Her second semester is already paid for, and she has her own bank account that her mother helped her open with the money from the college fund her parents had started when she was born. Part of the child support that Russell was forced to pay after the divorce has been added in over the last two years as well. Quinn can manage for a little while on her own, but she would need to find some means of income without her mother to help her pay her expenses at school, and she doesn’t know if she’ll be able to stay at Yale next fall without the extra help. She may need to transfer to a more affordable school.

But those are worries for another time. 


	2. Release Your Inhibitions

_**Part II: Release Your Inhibitions** _

* * *

Quinn starts the spring semester with a(nother) new outlook on life. She isn’t planning to run through the campus shouting that she’s gay, but she’s no longer afraid to embrace her own desires. When her eyes catch on lush curves and shiny hair and shapely legs, she lets them linger.

She feels obligated to tell her roommate that she's gay, reasoning that she'd want to know if the situations were reversed. The words don't come easily, and Quinn is apprehensive of how Megan will react. Megan has a few friends that seem to ping, like Josie, but Quinn thinks it might be different to find out you’re living with a lesbian. She gathers up the courage to broach the subject the second week of classes, and Megan only tilts her head in confusion, asking, “You're not, like, attracted to me, are you? Because, as gorgeous as you are, I don't swing that way.” Quinn assures her that she's not, and Megan nods, says, “Then we're cool,” and that's the end of the discussion.

**xox**

One Tuesday in mid-February, Quinn is shuffling books and hot coffee as she breezes into her favorite student lounge to get some early reading done for her European Literature class. She’s just about to arrange herself at an open table when she happens to notice Josie sitting across the room. She falters for a moment, nervously biting at her lip before she decides to walk over. Josie, consumed by whatever she’s working on, doesn’t notice Quinn until she’s standing over her.

Quinn quietly clears her throat, and Josie jerks her head up, recognition lighting her eyes. “Hi,” she murmurs.

“Hey,” Josie responds with a nod.

“I…um,” she drags in a breath and offers a meek smile. “I just want to apologize for, you know, last semester.”

Josie leans back in her chair, gazing up at Quinn with a faint smile. “Don’t worry about it.”

Quinn shifts her weight back and forth, pressing her books against her chest like a shield. “The thing is, I…I wasn’t completely honest with you,” she confesses awkwardly, glancing at a point over Josie’s left ear. “You know about…ah,” she shrugs, daring to meet those attentive blue eyes again. “I wasn’t really… _ out _  yet.”

Josie chuckles. “Yeah, I figured.” She gestures for Quinn to sit down, clearing off some of her papers to make room. Quinn hesitates, uncertain whether she should. She’s never done this before—talked to a girl that she’s maybe-kind-of attracted to who might actually be maybe-kind-of attracted back. She decides that she needs to start somewhere, so she sets down her books and coffee, shrugs her bag off her shoulder, and slides into the chair. 

“This is all pretty new for me,” Quinn shares. 

Josie smiles sympathetically, leaning forward and propping her elbows on the table. “Look, Quinn, I’m not sure if you’ve looked into it,” she keeps her voice low in an appreciated attempt to be discreet, “but Yale’s got a pretty awesome LGBTQ community.”

“I looked at the website,” Quinn admits with a little shrug. She knows there’s a resource center on campus and that there are peer liaisons available to talk to her. She’s read about the Co-Op and checked out the schedule of events, including weekly group meetings, but she has yet to make an active effort to get involved.  “Do you participate in all of those things?” she asks, hoping that she doesn’t sound as wary as she feels. 

Josie grins. “Well, I don’t really do the weekly meetings, but I go to a lot of the other events. The cabaret last fall was a blast. You know, there’s actually a dance party scheduled for next Friday night. You could come with me and check it out. No pressure,” she quickly assures, no doubt having noticed Quinn’s eyes flash with the nervous uncertainty that she’s feeling. “It doesn’t have to be a date or anything. Some of the students that show up are completely straight. They either have friends or family members that identify or they’re just supporters who want to have a good time.”

Quinn reminds herself, again, that this is what she wants now, to start getting comfortable with her sexuality and meeting people— _ women _ —that will make her forget about Rachel Berry. She smiles at Josie. “I’ll think about it.”

**xox**

She ends up going to the party. They aren't calling it a date, even though it kind of feels like one. Quinn meets Josie in the common room of Quinn's dorm, and they walk across campus together. They've had a few conversations since that day in the lounge, and Quinn has found out that Josie is from Massachusetts, that she's in her second year and studying Anthropology, that she identifies as bisexual, that she's been out since she was fifteen, and that her family supports her unconditionally. Quinn hasn't really shared much about herself in return.

The party isn't what Quinn is expecting—she's not sure what she was expecting—but it feels just like any other college party except that most of the couples on the dance floor are openly, comfortably gay. Josie introduces her to a few people as a friend, and Quinn can't quite decide if she's disappointed or relieved. She makes a little small talk—her major, where she's from—but no one really asks about her sexuality. They either assume that she's gay or don't care if she's straight. Josie tells her that it's like that at Yale—that the community here is pretty well accepted these days, almost to the point where everyone is complacent about issues that so many gay students face at other colleges. “We call it the Gay Ivy,” she explains.

They dance together, but without the alcohol in her system, Quinn can't seem to relax into the motion the way she so easily did the first time. Sooner than she likes, she feels the tell-tale ache in her leg and back that signal it's time to stop pushing her physical limits. She makes an excuse to Josie—she hasn't told anyone about the accident she had last year—and finds a seat at the edge of the room, content to simply people-watch for a while.

A few women ask her to dance and so do a couple of men, but she politely declines. She feels out of place when she should feel at ease, and she doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s because everyone else does seem so comfortable, like this is nothing at all—normal, mundane even—and she’s never trusted that things can be this simple. Even inside the walls of the choir room, where she’d been welcomed at her worst, huge and homeless and miserable, the promise of acceptance had been a lie. Santana, Brittany, Puck, Finn, Kurt, Sam—they’d all turned their judgmental eyes on her at one point or another, wounding her with words perfectly aimed at her deepest vulnerabilities. Even Rachel had alternated between a strange sort of admiration and contempt. Is it any wonder that Quinn doesn’t trust easily? 

The party is still in full swing when Josie asks if she wants to get out of there. Quinn is tired and sweaty, and her head is pounding from the music and the tension that she can’t seem to shake, so she smiles gratefully and says that she does. Josie offers a hand to help her stand, and she keeps hold of it as she leads Quinn through the crowd, grabbing their coats and heading out into the cold winter air. Quinn thinks nothing of Josie’s hand still wrapped lightly around her own, at least until they pass by a small group of guys that are laughing and horsing around as they run through the slush covered quad. Quinn instinctively drops Josie’s hand, shoving her own into her pockets. Josie looks over at her with an odd little frown but doesn’t say anything. At least, not until they’re back at Quinn’s dorm building.

“Tonight was nice,” Quinn tells her honestly. “Thank you for taking me.”

Josie sighs. “Too much, too soon, though. Right?”

Quinn flushes under knowing blue eyes. “I’ve never been much of a party girl.”

Josie chuckles. “Look, Quinn, it’s been pretty obvious from the beginning that you’re not really comfortable with your sexuality yet. And that’s fine,” she quickly assures her. “You have every right to take your time and set your own pace. I think you’re beautiful and sexy and a really great dancer,” she compliments with a kind smile, “but I’ve been somebody’s dirty little secret once before, and I can’t do that again.”

Quinn bristles at the implication, not liking the way that sounds. “I wouldn’t…”

Josie shakes her head and continues on, cutting off Quinn’s protest.  “I know it wouldn’t be intentional. But things like tonight...the way you kept looking around at the party like you were afraid someone you knew would see you, and dropping my hand the minute we were in public tells me you’re still not ready to be completely out and open with everything. And believe me, there’s nothing wrong with that. I’m just in a place in my life where I don’t want to have to worry about who might see me holding hands with a girl I like.”

Quinn puffs out a steamy breath, and her eyes sting unpleasantly, which is ridiculous. It’s not like she’s fallen in love with Josie in the week and a half they’ve been friendly, and tonight wasn’t even a date, but this still feels too much like rejection, and it sucks. She pushes her hands deeper into her pockets, balling up her fists and digging her nails into her palms. “I get it,” she mutters sullenly. 

Josie rolls her eyes. “Hey, it’s not like I don’t ever want to see you again, Quinn. I’d really like to be your friend, if that’s okay with you. I just think we should draw the line now so neither one of us ends up disappointed.”

Quinn silently concedes that she’s right. She’s not ready to hold hands with another woman in public, let alone kiss one, at least not when she’s completely sober, but she thinks she’d like to be Josie’s friend. It’s been nice to have someone on campus that she can talk to without censoring her thoughts. Megan is nice enough, but they don’t share much by the way of personal information, and they hardly have any common interests. Santana is eighty miles away in New York, and Rachel—well, her relationship with Rachel is always going to be a little more complicated than simple friendship.

She offers a faint smile, dragging her right hand from her pocket and holding it out to Josie. “Friends then?”

A cool palm meets hers in a firm handshake, and Josie grins. “Friends.”

**xox**

The winter passes, and it’s a wicked one. Quinn eases her way into the LGBTQ community, albeit at a comfortably slow pace. She attends some of the lectures, both alone and with Josie, who proves to be a really great friend. She listens and doesn’t judge. She jokingly says it’s all because of that girlfriend that wanted to keep her in the closet. She’s heard all of Quinn’s concerns before, and she’s seen first hand what fear can do, and, unfortunately, she’s also experienced the painful reality of rejection and intolerance and hate. 

Josie also knows a thing or two about unrequited love, the reality of which Quinn is dealing with in her own way. She’s avoiding New York, but not Rachel’s phone calls or emails. Luckily, or unluckily, depending on Quinn’s mood at the time, Rachel can’t seem to find a good weekend to visit New Haven. She's busy with dance and voice classes, a drama group that's taking up a lot of her free time, and, of course, Finn. Rachel apologizes repeatedly, explaining that Finn is working more hours—New York City is expensive—and he wants to spend the limited free time he has with his fiancée. If Rachel's voice seems to carry an edge of irritation, it isn't Quinn's place to question why.

By the end of March, Quinn doesn't need to question anything, because Rachel and Finn have broken up. She goes to New York to offer her support, and every feeling that she's done so well to manage at Yale comes rushing back to overwhelm her. There's an inkling of an impulse to pull Rachel into her arms and confess her love, but the timing is so very wrong. The timing is always wrong, but even though her heart aches just a little every time she's near Rachel, it's somehow easier to accept now that she's accepted herself. Rachel has changed her—helped her to grow into a better version of herself—and Quinn suspects that she will always be a little bit in love with her, but her future is finally full of possibilities that she's no longer afraid to embrace.

Life isn't perfect, but she's happy. Her friendship with Rachel is back on the right track, and she's visiting New York more often, so she's able to spend more time with Santana too. Quinn gradually gets more comfortable in the Yale community, and, in late April, she meets Kylie at a lecture on Homosexuality in the Media.

Kylie is a junior, and she's gorgeous—with dark brown hair, mossy green eyes, and a tattoo of a stalking tiger poking out from underneath her sleeve. She reminds Quinn a little of the Mack, mixed with a pinch of Santana's derisive intelligence. It's an intriguing combination, but there are papers due, finals to study for, and boxes to pack for the summer, and there just isn't time for any new beginnings. They settle for coffees and email addresses and loose promises to keep in touch.

**xox**

Quinn makes a stop in New York before heading back to Lima. The lease on Kurt's apartment isn't up until the end of May, so Rachel is officially staying with him until then, although she's been unofficially staying with him since Finn left New York—her dorm room really was a glorified closet. Kurt's attention is slowly shifting back to fashion, and he's been looking into taking some design classes. He's always possessed a flair for the dramatic when it comes to clothes, but whether that leads him to costumes or couture remains to be seen.

Her second day in the city, Quinn finally meets the guy that Rachel's been semi-dating for a couple of weeks. His name is Daniel, and he's certainly Rachel's type, with dark hair and dark eyes, albeit a bit more fit than Finn Hudson. Personally, he reminds Quinn a little too much of Jesse St. James, but he seems genuinely fond of Rachel, and they share a comfortable rapport that Rachel and Finn never seemed to manage in all their time together. Quinn wants to like the guy, but she doesn't. Maybe it's her jealousy, or maybe it's too soon, or maybe it's that Rachel and Daniel act more like they’re playing love interests than actually in love, but in the end, it doesn't really matter because Rachel seems happier, and she's clearly moving on. Quinn knows it's time for her to do the same.

“So, Daniel seems nice,” she offers, only hesitating a little over the last word. They're alone in the apartment, crashing on the sofa and sharing a cheap bottle of illegally procured wine, while Kurt is out with a guy he met last week. It seems like everyone is moving on from their high school relationships.

Rachel's grin stretches wide across her face. “He is,” she gushes, leaning forward to set her glass on the stained coffee table. “We get along so well. And, I must admit, it's nice to date someone who knows that Irving Berlin is a composer and not a place in Germany and doesn't refer to Sutton Foster as that chick from  _ Bunheads, _ ” she confesses with an exasperated roll of her eyes.

Once she stops laughing, Quinn smiles proudly, telling Rachel, “I'm glad you're moving on from Finn. You deserve someone who treats you the way you deserve to be treated.”

“So do you, Quinn,” Rachel responds, reaching over and laying a reassuring hand on Quinn’s shoulder. The simple touch sparks an automatic response—fluttering heart, tingling skin, bittersweet pleasure. “I know there's some amazing guy out there just waiting to find you.”

Quinn hides her tiny frown inside her makeshift wine glass, which is really a coffee mug with Tinkerbell in a bathrobe and sleep mask printed on the side. A wave of guilt crashes into her. “Actually,” she murmurs quietly, not really meeting Rachel's bright, encouraging eyes, “I'm pretty certain there isn't.”

“Quinn, you're far too young to give up on love,” Rachel chides, seemingly outraged that Quinn would utter such a sacrilege. “Granted, your past romantic history has been questionable at best, but I’m convinced that it's only because you haven't met the right person yet.”

Quinn rolls her eyes, letting the veiled insult go without a reaction. It’s just Rachel’s way, and Quinn has finally learned how to translate her actual words into their intended meaning. She sighs heavily, placing her wine on the table and worrying her lip before she swallows down her nerves and finds her voice.  “Rach, look, I'm not giving up on love.” She takes a breath, twisting her fingers into her skirt and meeting Rachel’s eyes. “Just…men.”

“I...don't understand,” she mutters, brows furrowing in confusion. Quinn can almost see her silently repeating the words and trying to make them mean something other than the obvious. 

It's not that Quinn has been intentionally hiding her sexuality from Rachel, but she can’t really deny that she’s been procrastinating like a pro. For the past four months, most of their conversations have been overflowing with discussions about their respective projects and performances, some new local discovery that one of them had made, the antics of certain friends, or Rachel’s breakup with Finn. It was very easy for Quinn to backburner her own confession and simply enjoy her friendship with Rachel. She certainly would never have dropped this kind of bomb over the phone, and she’s nervous to do it now, wondering if Rachel will finally connect the dots and realize that Quinn has had romantic ulterior motives in regards to her for quite some time. 

She takes a very deliberate breath, steeling her resolve, and very clearly says, “Rachel, I'm gay.” 

Rachel’s expression doesn’t really change much, but she does blink a few times. “You...you mean gay, as in extremely happy,” she carefully asks after an agonizing moment.

_ Well, now she’s just being purposely obtuse _ , Quinn thinks irritably, clicking her tongue. “No, as in lesbian,” she clarifies

“Oh,” Rachel breathes, nodding slightly. She turns her head to face forward, placing both hands demurely on her lap and staring down at the floor with stiff shoulders. 

Quinn waits. Her heart is racing, and her head is starting to pound. The wine was probably a bad idea. She stares at the side of Rachel’s face, drilling her gaze into the smooth skin of her jaw and willing that mouth to open and let Quinn know what’s going on in her head.

It doesn’t happen.

“Okay, you're not talking, and it's really freaking me out,” she finally snaps.

Rachel flinches, dragging in a ragged breath. “I...I'm sorry,” she finally says, glancing back at Quinn. “I'm just...surprised.  _ Extremely _  surprised,” she stresses with a nervous laugh. “You...you've never indicated that you were even  _ questioning _  your sexuality.”

“Because I wasn't. I was actually going out of my way to  _ never _  question it,” Quinn explains with a rueful smile. She feels a little better now that Rachel is looking at her again, those dark eyes attentively locked onto hers. “You have to understand, Rachel. I didn't grow up in the kind of accepting family that you did. My parents had certain expectations for me, and I guess I had them for myself too,” she admits with a shrug. “I didn't start to let go of them until this past year, and I'm still trying to figure everything out.

Rachel’s eyes have grown softer over every word, and now they’re sparkling suspiciously. Quinn hopes the emotion she sees in them isn’t pity. “Am I the first person you've told? Or…?”

She shakes her head. “I told Santana over winter break.”

“That makes sense,” Rachel observes with a distracted nod. “She's your oldest friend, and I suppose she can identify with what you've been going through.”

Quinn grins as she remembers just how helpful Santana has tried to be. If she’d had her way, Quinn would have bedded a dozen women by now. Santana mostly needles her about how prudish she’s being about the whole thing, but, “Talking to her has helped,” she admits. “I told a couple of people at Yale too,” she feels compelled to add. “My roommate, Meg, and her friend, Josie. Josie is involved in the community at school,” she quickly explains when she notices Rachel’s face shift ever so slightly, “and she's kind of been helping me get more comfortable with everything.”  

Quinn has known Rachel for five years now, and she’s spent a good portion of that time studying her when no one else was watching—a habit born of learning her enemy back when she’d been looking for ways to break Rachel’s confidence. As a result, Quinn has a developed the ability to recognize a broad spectrum of Rachel’s facial tics. Right now, her jaw is marginally tighter, the vague curve of her lips is drawn into a thin line, and that tiny little wrinkle between her eyebrows is making another appearance. She’s seen this particular expression a handful of times, and she knows exactly what it means. 

“Wow, okay,” Rachel finally says, shaking her head and crossing her arms with a frown. “I guess I was kind of low on your list of people to tell,” she deduces, the tiny tremor in her voice betraying her hurt feelings. 

“No, Rach, it...” Quinn puffs out a breath, silently counting to five. “I didn't want to do it over the phone or Skype,” she explains calmly. 

“Or during any of the half-dozen times we've visited one another, apparently.”

The sarcasm rubs Quinn exactly the wrong way, and she feels the fraying edges of her patience finally give way. “Are you seriously making my coming out about you?” she asks incredulously. She shouldn’t be surprised. Anything that so much as brushes up against Rachel Berry’s world gets sucked into her gravity and forced into orbit around her phenomenal ego. 

Quinn shoves trembling fingers through her overlong hair, springing from the sofa and pacing to the wall. She feels like the room is closing in around her, and she wants to scream, punch the wall, and then shake some sensitivity into Rachel Barbra Berry. “Jesus, Rachel,” she curses, spinning around and pinning the girl with her tearful gaze, “this hasn't been easy for me! I haven't even told my  _ mother  _ yet, and she's probably going to disown me when I do. So I'm sorry if you feel slighted because I decided to wait to tell you about something very confusing and personal in  _ my _  life,” she thumps her chest angrily, “until we actually had some time to spend together without college stress or your Goddamn relationship drama getting in the way,” she yells, flinging out her hands.

Rachel blinks up at her, posture curled in on herself, and brown eyes glistening with tears. “My,” she whispers brokenly, before she nods, straightening her shoulders even as she turns her face away from Quinn’s hard eyes. “Okay,” she agrees, nodding again. “I…I’m sorry.”

And just that easily, all of Quinn’s righteous anger disappears in a puff of smoke. “Shit,” she hisses, sinking back down on the sofa and dropping her head into her hands. “I didn't mean that the way it sounded.” 

“Yes, you did,” Rachel argues weakly. “But...you...you're right. I was being petty,” she admits, sniffling a little as she gently wipes under her eyes. Quinn turns to look at her, and Rachel sighs, her breath visible in the rise and fall of her shoulders. “It's just,” she begins, glancing at Quinn with a sad smile, “I've told you all of these personal things about...about myself, and about my...relationship drama,” she mutters shamefully, making Quinn’s heart pinch unpleasantly, “and you're my  _ best friend _ , Quinn. I suppose I'm hurt that you didn't feel as if you could trust me enough to confide in me about something so important in your life.”

Quinn swallows down the lump in her throat. “I'm confiding in you  _ now _ , Rach. I think I trust you more than anyone, even Santana, but I needed time to work through my feelings,” she explains, praying that Rachel doesn’t see the truth in her eyes—that it’s Quinn’s feelings for her specifically that kept her silent for so long. “I really need you to tell me that this doesn’t change how you think of me,” she pleads softly.

Rachel tilts her head, and she reaches out to lightly rest her hand over Quinn’s where it’s gripping the cushion. “Why would you ever think it would? Quinn, you're still  _ you _ ,” she insists with a little grin. “I don't care what gender you're attracted to. I only care that you're happy.”

Quinn bites her lip and turns her palm over, loosely curling it around Rachel’s hand in a soft gesture of gratitude. “I'm...getting there.” 

Rachel smiles and squeezes her hand briefly before letting go. “So,” she begins mildly, “this Jody person. Are you…?” she trails off, raising her eyebrows.

“Josie,” Quinn automatically corrects, “and no. We’re just friends. I'm not seeing anyone right now.” She decides not to mention Kylie. She doesn’t even know if they’ll be in touch again, and she’s really not ready to talk to Rachel about her potential love life just yet. 

Rachel nods, quickly licking her lips before she says, “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but this is kind of weird.” Quinn's eyebrow arches, and she frowns. Rachel's face turns a pretty shade of pink as she ducks her head sheepishly. “Asking you about girls, I mean,” she clarifies. “After all, we spent two years fighting over a boy.”

Quinn chuckles. “Because Finn Hudson was exactly what I was supposed to want. Quarterback of the football team, sweet to his mother, eager to please, and easily led. He was safe,” Quinn says with a shrug before cutting Rachel a mock glare, “and  _ you  _ kept screwing it up for me.”  _ In every way _ , she thinks.

“I’m sorry. I suppose that I was a bit overzealous in my pursuit of him,” Rachel concedes.

“Maybe a bit,” Quinn says dryly. “I’m sorry too. Well, mostly,” she amends, then narrows her eyes against the jumble of memories that flash before them. “Actually, you know, he really wasn’t right for you at all, so I’m not sorry I tried to get you to see that. I’m only sorry it kept us from becoming friends sooner,” she tells Rachel with a smile that's instantly returned.

“Well, we’re friends now, and I want you to know, despite my occasional bouts of self-involvement, you really can talk to me about anything, Quinn,” she promises. “And, of course, you're obviously aware that my dads and I have been active in the Lima LGBTQ community since I was a baby, so if you’re interested, I’ll be more than happy to accompany you to any events this summer,” she offers. Then her eyes flash, and Quinn watches the electricity move through her petite body until she's lit up like a supernova. “In fact, Columbus has an amazing pride festival. There's a picnic and an art show and a 5K run,” she lists excitedly, and Quinn's eyes widen with every rapidly-fired word that falls from Rachel's lips, “and of course, the parade. We can take a road trip. You and me and Kurt, and I’m certain that Brittany and Santana would come too if you ask them. We'll have so much fun.”

“Woah,” Quinn cuts her off, face hot and stomach rolling unpleasantly, “slow down, Rachel. I really don't think I'm ready for all of that. I still have to figure out a way to tell my mother before I go marching in any parades.”

Rachel's smile evaporates. “Do you…do you really think she’ll disown you?” she asks worriedly.

Quinn absently runs her damp palms over her thighs, smoothing her skirt in the process. “I don't know,” she admits. The question has been plaguing her mind for months, and she honestly can't even begin to guess how her mother will react. “My father would have thrown me out instantly,” she puffs out a frustrated laugh, “if he hadn't already done it when I got pregnant. My mom and I have had a better relationship since she divorced him, especially after last year,” Quinn hedges, noticing the way Rachel winces at the subtle reminder of her accident, “but she keeps asking me if I’ve met any nice men at Yale.” She rolls her eyes, allowing a grin to curve her mouth. “I doubt she'll be happy when I tell her that I'm actually hoping to meet a nice woman.”

Rachel places what's meant to be a comforting hand on Quinn's knee and offers a sympathetic smile. “No matter what happens, I’ll be here for you,” she vows, and Quinn does her best to ignore that little ping in her heart that begs for Rachel's touch to mean more and for her words to be the whispered promise of a lover. Instead she manages a grateful smile and a soft “thanks,” and the moment passes until they're once again just two friends sharing a quiet evening in New York.

**xox**

Quinn comes out to Kurt the next morning. It's much easier, probably because she mostly doesn't care what he thinks. Rachel is their common ground, and now maybe this as well, but she doesn't really see either of them linking arms and attending any pride rallies together—unless Rachel manages to drag them to one. When Quinn tells him, his jaw drops and his eyebrows meet the edge of his over-coiffed hair. “You're joking,” he gasps, and she shakes her head. His eyes dart to Rachel, who is sending him a half-hearted glare on Quinn’s behalf. “Are we sure this isn't just some college experiment?” he asks her, as if Quinn isn't sitting right there.

She scowls into her cereal while Rachel slaps him across the arm. “Really, Kurt?”

He rubs at his bicep with a pout. “Sorry, but you have to admit, this is an unexpected turn of events.

Rachel shrugs and nods in silent agreement. Quinn tosses her spoon into the bowl with a clank, splashing droplets of soy milk across the table. “What's the matter, Kurt? Can't wrap your mind around the despair and self-loathing I might have been struggling with all these years? I mean, the world never stopped loving me, right?” She has the perverse pleasure of watching all of the color drain from his already pale face.

“I...I didn't,” he stutters, dropping his head in shame.

“Quinn,” Rachel chides softly, her face awash with confusion.

Quinn sighs, slumping back into her chair. Rachel doesn't understand the context of conversation between them, but Kurt does. Quinn isn't really being fair to him, she knows. After all, he'd actually apologized to her after her accident, and Quinn had brushed it off at the time, too preoccupied with more serious concerns, but she can't deny that the moment has stayed with her. Some part of her thinks that Kurt only apologized then to soothe his own guilt after she'd nearly died—that he hadn't really understood the way he'd dismissed her own personal pain as unimportant—but seeing him now, she thinks maybe he finally comprehends. He never should have presumed to know what was going on inside her head.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers, lifting his gaze, “so incredibly sorry. I've been a horrible friend.”

Quinn’s eyes dart to Rachel, reading the distress on her face, and she reminds herself that Kurt  _ has _  been a good friend to Rachel. She doesn’t want to fight with him. “I forgive you,” she offers, standing from the table and carrying her bowl over to the sink to rinse it out.

“What just happened?” Rachel mutters in bewilderment, looking between her two friends

“Quinn kindly reminded me that I should attempt to be more sensitive,” Kurt respectfully informs her. Rachel clearly doubts that he's telling her the whole truth, but she allows it to pass.

Kurt excuses himself for most of the day after that, and Quinn is happily left alone in Rachel's company. Rachel asks her what she’d like to do, and she takes advantage of Rachel’s eagerness to let her choose their activity, deciding it will be fun to take the cruise around Manhattan. After spending ten minutes complaining that it’s such a touristy thing for a New Yorker to do, Rachel reluctantly agrees. Two hours later, Quinn is laughing as she watches Rachel excitedly bounce around the deck, taking in the view of her city from the water as the cool breeze whips through her hair. 

They enjoy dinner at a little vegan place near Columbus Circle that Rachel stumbled across earlier in the year, and when they get back to the apartment, Kurt is there with a bouquet of purple hyacinths and another apology. Quinn can’t help but be touched by the gesture. He’s still a bit of gay snob, not quite willing to believe that bisexuals exist, and though he doesn't say it out loud, Quinn senses that he doesn’t really understand how she could have thrown herself so wholly into the pursuit of heterosexuality before admitting the truth. She wonders how he can so easily ignore the week he spent wearing flannel and kissing Brittany, but she lets him hold onto his moral simplicity, and he lets her know that she has one more person in her life that she can depend on.

**xox**

When Quinn returns to Lima, she tells her mother about her finals, she tells her about her friends, she tells her about New Haven in the springtime, and she tells her about New York. She doesn’t tell her that she’s a lesbian. She does go out and find a job stocking shelves at the local  _ Barnes & Noble _ , thankful that it gives her something to occupy her time and a way to pad her bank account (and the immediate access to so many newly released books doesn’t hurt either). She spends her free time on a constant carousel with old friends—Santana and Brittany at the mall, Mercedes for a movie, Sam to volunteer at the local homeless shelter, Rachel when she finally comes back from New York. 

Quinn gets a text in mid-June, just a short, flirty message that begins with,  **Hi, beautiful, how is ur summer?** **This is Kylie, btw. ;)**

She grins down at her phone for a good five minutes before she texts back. She feels giddy and hopeful, like she’s finally running toward something instead of always running away. And with that thought in her mind, she gathers her courage one evening during dinner.

Pushing the peas around on her plate, Quinn waits until her mother is finished with her own meal before she takes a steadying breath and says, “I need to tell you something, and it’s kind of important.”

Her mother’s fingers clench around her fork, and she slowly places it across her empty plate before she warily looks up at Quinn. “Are you pregnant again?”

“What? No,” Quinn denies sharply. “God no. Definitely not.” 

Relief washes over her mother's face, and she sighs. “Good. That’s good.”

“You actually don’t need to worry about that at all,” Quinn promises, and it isn’t even entirely tied to her sexual preference. She loves Beth with all of her heart, but she accepts that giving her up was the right thing to do, and lately she’s considering the possibility that she might never be ready to offer another child what she’ll never be able to give her firstborn daughter.

“Well, of course I worry, Quinnie. You’re a beautiful young woman,” her mother assures her with a tender smile. “I’d obviously prefer it if you recommitted to celibacy until you’re married, but I accept that there are certain temptations when one is away at college. As long as you’re being responsible this time.”

Quinn’s ears feel like they’re on fire as she listens to her mother discuss her potential sex life so matter-of-factly, and her stomach churns, making her wish she’d done this before she’d attempted to eat dinner. “Mom, I’m…I,” she huffs, frustrated by her own fear, “I’m not really attracted to men.”

Her mother stares at her blankly. She wets her lips and visibly swallows, plastering a polite smile on her face. “Well, I certainly find it hard to believe that there aren’t any eligible men in a college as elite as Yale, but I’m certain that you’ll find someone next year.”

“No, mom, I won’t,” Quinn denies with surprising confidence. Her mother’s mask had slipped, only for a second, but enough for Quinn to be fairly certain that she isn’t telling her anything that she doesn’t already suspect. “There are hundreds of eligible, attractive men at Yale, but I’m not interested in any of them.”

“You’re being far too picky, Quinn,” her mother stubbornly argues. “Although, I suppose that’s a vast improvement over how indiscriminate you were with those boys you dated in high school.”

“I’m not being picky,” she insists, flattening her palms against the table and taking a fortifying breath. “I’m gay.”

The words hang between them, heavy and suffocating. Her mother’s face grows pale and tight. Quinn feels like she might be sick. Mentally, she’s preparing, reviewing her possessions in order to pack efficiently, and debating whether it will best to call Santana or Rachel or both. She wonders if her mother will set the timer on the microwave. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” her mother hisses. “You’re certainly not  _ like that _ .”

Quinn snaps her teeth together, biting down hard in an attempt to manage her emotions. “Gay, Mom,” she spits forcefully. “I’m gay. A lesbian. Attracted to women.” She’s tempted to use a few of the colorful phrases that Santana is so fond of sharing, but her mother’s eyes grow wider with every declaration, and she really doesn’t want this to get any uglier than she knows it’s going to be. She just wants to make sure her mother understands.

Her mother’s right hand comes up to clutch at the Saint Jude pendant that dangles from her throat. “No…no. You…you’re just confused,” she stammers, ever persistent in her denial. “You’ve been through so much in the last few years, and you’ve been hurt, but that’s no reason to give up on love, Quinnie.”

Quinn frowns, choking on a silent, humorless laugh. “I’m not giving up on love. I’m finally giving myself permission to look for it in someone who will actually make me happy. Isn’t that what you want for me?” she asks, voice cracking. “To be happy?”

Her mother purses her lips, shaking her head in disapproval. “Living  _ that way _  will not make you happy, Quinn. It’s…it’s just not right.”

Quinn stiffens, dropping her gaze and tracing the gold leaf pattern on her plate with her eyes. All her life, she’s been told that she’s not right. When she was younger, it was her weight, her nose, and her hair color that were wrong. Being chaste was wrong, then having sex with Puck was wrong. Getting pregnant was wrong, then giving up her baby was wrong. Being in glee club; wrong. Quitting glee club; wrong. Wanting to be prom queen; wrong. Wanting to be one of the skanks; wrong. Trying to get her daughter back; wrong, wrong, wrong. She’s so tired of being wrong.

“But this is who I am,” she rasps.

“You can change,” her mother insists. “It’s a phase, like your pink hair and the cigarettes.”

“It’s not!” Quinn shouts, slapping her palms on the table hard enough to rattle the dishes and stopping her mother before the next denial can form. “The boys were the phase, Mom! I dated them because I was supposed to, because that’s what  _ you _  and Daddy wanted,” she forcefully reminds her. “The perfect, thin, popular prom queen who marries her high school boyfriend.” Quinn violently swipes at the traitorous tears that slip down over her cheeks. “And God knows I tried to be that girl, but I’m not,” she repeats, and then laughs sadly, realizing, “I turned out to be the girl that wants to  _ marry _  the prom queen.” 

Her mother recoils, the last of her denial slipping away into shocked horror. “Don’t say that. You can’t marry another woman, Quinn. Unless you plan to move to Canada.”

“Or New York,” she proudly supplies, “or Massachusetts, or New Hampshire, or Vermont. Or I’ll just stay in Connecticut, where I happen to go to school,” she reminds her mother.

“That’s enough, Lucy Quinn Fabray,” her mother demands, eyes flashing. She abruptly stands and grabs her plate, taking it into the adjacent kitchen and turning the water in the sink on at full force.  

Quinn drops her head into her hands, listening to her mother slamming around the kitchen as she cleans up their dinner. She’s in limbo, uncertain whether she’s still welcome here. Scraping her chair back along the floor, she stands and warily carries her plate into the kitchen as her mother steadfastly avoids looking at her. “Please,” she begs softly, coming to stand next to her mother at the sink. “Please, Mom. I’m not asking for your approval. I’m just asking you to accept that this is who I am, and that I’m still your daughter.” Her mother’s mouth trembles, and Quinn sees that her eyes are red and her cheeks are wet. She swallows down her own tears and concentrates on keeping her voice steady. “It’s taken me such a long time to get to this place; to be comfortable with who I am and what I want.”

“You’re only nineteen,” her mother says quietly, shaking her head. “You don’t know what you want. Last year, you wanted to be an actress, and now you’re talking about declaring an English major.”

Quinn chuckles a little at that, shrugging. “And next year, maybe I’ll want to be a lawyer,” she dips her head and catches her mother’s eyes, voice gentle, “but I’ll still be a lesbian.”

Her mother’s blue eyes blink shut, and she inhales a shuddering breath. “I don’t know if I can accept that,” she finally says.

Quinn steps back, trying to swallow around the thickness in her throat so that she can breathe. “Okay,” she whispers shakily. “Will you at least give me an hour to pack?”

Her mother’s eyes snap open, and she stares disbelievingly at her daughter. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not leaving this house, Quinn. I am not your father,” she frowns, gently brushing beneath her eyes before she squares her shoulders and tips her chin up defiantly. “I may believe that you’re confused right now, and that you’re making a mistake, but you’re still my daughter, and,” she huffs, blinking again as pure agony flickers over her features, “I nearly lost you last year,” she grinds out hoarsely, “and I never want to experience anything like that again.” She grips Quinn’s shoulders with both hands, promising, “We’ll find a way to get through this…problem.”

Quinn sighs. “It’s not a problem, Mom. It’s me,” she tries again, not appreciating the way her mother keeps implying that her sexuality is something that can be fixed, like her nose or her weight. “I don’t like having sex with men,” she says bluntly. 

Her mother flushes pink and drops her hands to her sides. “Please don’t speak about those things, Quinn. It isn’t polite.” 

She turns to picks up the dishrag again, and Quinn knows that she should be relieved that she’s still welcome in this house, but her mother is just so frustrating that she hears herself speaking before she can think better of it. “So what? We just don’t ever talk about this again? Just like we don’t talk about Beth.”

“Quinn,” her mother barks out, throwing the rag against the counter top and bracing her hands there. “This is the best I can do right now,” she admonishes tiredly, hanging her head. “Do you understand that?” 

She crosses her arms defensively and nods, even though her mother isn’t looking at her. “I’m sorry I’m always such a disappointment to you.”

Her mother slumps forward slightly, muttering, “No.” She straightens away from the counter and faces Quinn with tears glistening in her eyes. “No, you’re,” she shakes her head, gently placing her left hand to Quinn’s cheek. “You’ve made me proud in so many other ways, Quinnie, but this,” she trails off, dropping her hand and sighing. “You’ve been through so much already. I don’t understand why you’re willingly choosing to do something that will make your life even more difficult.”

“Because it isn’t a choice,” Quinn feels the need to clarify, even though she accepts that her mother just doesn’t understand that at all. She’s not surprised that her mother doesn’t verbally acknowledge what she’s said but just nods in that distracted way that indicates that she’s heard the words but doesn’t agree with them.

Her mother dances her fingers down Quinn’s arm and takes her hand, giving it a firm, brief squeeze, and she forces a thin smile. “We’ll get through this,” she repeats, and then she lets go, smoothing her hair back with trembling hands. “I think I’m going to go lay down for a while. I have a bit of a headache,” she explains, abandoning the kitchen with Quinn still standing in it.

Quinn watches her retreat, sagging back against counter and bracing her palms against the edge. No doubt her mother is going upstairs to her bedroom to have a good cry and probably fishing out a bottle of wine from her stash along the way. Quinn can feel her own tears leaking from her eyes. She’s exhausted, physically and emotionally, and she doesn’t quite know what she should do next. 

She replays the conversation in her mind, slowly processing all of it, and she realizes with a start that she’s still here. She came out to her mother, and she isn't packing any boxes and scrambling for a place to live. Her mother might be upset and disappointed and even angry right now, but she still thinks of Quinn as her daughter—still wants her to stay here.

Relief washes over her, and she takes a deep breath, exhaling every last pretense. She smiles, and then she laughs, because it feels good. It feels free. The future spreads out before her in pristine white, like a blank page waiting to be filled with new possibilities and punctuated with her very own happy ending. But today—today is where her book begins. 


End file.
